


held

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: not tagging this anything because nobody reads shit about my ocs so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	held

Being held is the memory that Eska cherishes the most.

It is a strange kind of memory - for he has no visuals for it, nor sounds, nor odors or tastes or textures. He remembers a gentle pressure, and some sort of loving warmth, and nothing else.

He has no idea who or what held him for the first time.

What he does know is that there is a big, colossal, gargantuan difference between being held and being clutched.

Of his many pets, only few could have held him, and even then, with only partial success - as Luva, Riba and the lizards were too small to properly envelop him, and Hníf could only do so by becoming akin to a lounge chair built in reverse, holding him down with her large front paws as she laid. The many who could not hold him decided to lay on him as best as they could without asphyxiating him, which meant that Hampaat was only ever able to lay her long crocodile maws across his chest and lap. He loved every single one of their attempts, and held them in turn.

The Spirit of Violent Deaths holds in that same indescribable way its presence and appearance would suggest. It holds like a warmed weighted blanket wrapped around the body, soft and slightly fuzzy and fluid like liquid silk; and the voice with which they sing sweetest lullabies is a part of the hold in and of itself. It is chilly in the pleasantly warm way that had shielded him from the cold of winter when he had forfeited his coat and blanket to Kirbes and Hampaat.

Niamh holds strong enough, solid enough. She is fat and soft, and she has that nice smell that fat and soft people have, the one that makes you want to hold them and drift to sleep - he can’t really think of anything else that smells like that, so he says it’s the smell of soft. When she speaks her chest rumbles and thunders in a beautiful way, like a rainstorm over the sea, and her goodnight kisses are plush and soft in a way that makes it feel like you’re sinking in them.

Kim holds tight and gently. He bounces his legs often, a little bit, and sitting on them feels a little like being on horseback and a little like being a blanket that is getting the dust shaken off of it very energetically. His hair tickles a little bit, and his humming feels a lot like a sort of brassy white noise. He likes to give pats, and hold the hands, and nuzzle foreheads and cheeks, and he’s quiet, so quiet. It feels safe, to be encased in his slender arms.

Thaische holds to be held. She is too small to properly hold him, but neither mind. He is a little cold, and he smells like lemons, sweet and acid and bitter and sweet again. They have little hands and arms and legs, and they are soft despite their bones peaking out, a little bit like a bird. Their hair is soft, and her eyes are sweet, and his fingers curl really sweetly around him, like those of little sleepy siblings do when their brothers hug them to bring them to sleep.

Eska has been told that he holds in a bony kind of way. That he holds like he’s handling a small animal, and like he is the small animal being handled. That he holds in a very loving, very warm way.

He thinks it didn’t feel like that all the times he held himself, alone.

But he figures, if his family says otherwise, then they probably know better.


End file.
